


A Christmas Evening in the Library (basement)

by elwinglyre



Series: Failing Upward Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheetos kink, Failing Upward universe, Kinky holiday sex on desks, M/M, PWP, Red Cherry Lube, candy cane porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: My holiday gift to everyone!This is written in the Failing Upward AU universe, but it can be read as a stand alone if you haven't read it. John is a musician by night and a florist by day. Sherlock is a reporter with the homicide beat.





	A Christmas Evening in the Library (basement)

It was a nightmare. Green, red, blue and yellow twinkled behind my eyes. As a kid, I never would have believed I'd be so sick of Christmas, but putting up thousands of strands of lights and hundreds of yards of pine roping downtown had me ready to throw glass Christmas ornaments at Jolly Ol' Saint Nick. My hands ached from twisting in those tiny blinking lights so throwing bulbs was out of the question-- that and there was no way to have that great release needed, you know the ultimate windup pitch where the bulb explodes. You see, there was the matter of the ornaments sticking to my fingers. Damn pine tar from the roping was like Superglue to everything I touched. Kind of like Midas only instead of turning whatever I touched to gold, things became attached. Finally there was my humble and lovable boss, Mrs. Hudson, who I could never in my deepest pit my heart disappoint. If I threw ornaments at the Santa on Main Street, he'd shake his head and I'd get a terminal case of the guilts.

  
So I was stuck. With pine sap. Fingers a gummed up mess. Sap doesn't come off proper without turpentine, but it burned like a bitch to pour it over my hands.

Ever had one-on-one contact with blue spruce and white pine? They don't call them pine "needles" for nothing. My hands we human pin cushions. Try pouring turpentine over hundreds on puncture wounds and you will know the meaning of agony.

  
The solution was do nothing. Let everything stick-- even the Cheeto I tried to pop into my mouth. I nibbled it off, then set the bag aside. Even Frito-Lay had holiday packaging-- stupid holly. That had evil pin-points too. I couldn't even enjoy junk food without Christmas horning in.

  
I figured I'd just have to live with mitten hands with mini-holes until the stuff wore off, and I healed.

  
I crossed my legs at the knees. I was flung out all over the couch. I tried to relax, really I did, but I still heard the muzak downtown buzz in my brain. Ok, I have to say that "Deck the Halls" and "Jingle Bell Rock" sucks.

  
Closing my eyes, it struck me-- I'm turning into Scrooge.

  
I jumped up. This can't happen! I had to get out of this funk before I tried to staple tiny antlers on the heads of mice. If only Sherlock wasn't working late at the library tonight with his damned research on a homicide case-- I needed a serious diversion. Must have Christmas spirit. I pulled out all the desk drawers rummaging around. Now where did Sherlock hide those spare keys?

Ah, ha!

  
Then, I ran around the house collecting what I needed.

  
I headed out the door for the library with a sprig of mistletoe, a Christmas stocking full of surprises, and the keys to university library.  
\--------------------  
He was in the basement or also referred to as "the dungeon" by those less fortunate who ventured down there. It’s quiet and stuffy and where all the archived material is kept along with the boiler. I went down the twenty steps into the labyrinth. In this place at all sorts of miscellaneous items were kept. The other day I complained again about his long hours there and at the police stations, and why it was nonsense he spent some much time in bots basements. He frowned at me and mumbled, "What would a guitar playing florist like you know about it anyway?"

  
I hoped Sherlock was in a better mood. I wandered through the shelves.

  
"Hey, Sherlock? You there?"

  
"In the back."

  
I headed through the stacks of old periodicals with my stocking full of goodies. I tried thinking of ways to divert his attention. Sherlock could be so single minded when it came to his research. We did have common ground when it came to the dislike of his senior professor, Alicia Smallwood. I imagined wrapping that heartless senior professor up just like Clark Griswold's fat-ass boss in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Smallwood with a nice big bow. Yeah, serve her right for using Sherlock’s time for “other research” instead of spending time in our bed. My plan was to make sure Sherlock had as much jolly holiday fun as when Bing Crosby danced with Danny-fucking Kaye.

  
I stopped. There Sherlock was, sitting behind a desk, laptop glowing on his striking face. I stepped out, hiding the stocking with Christmas goodies behind my back. Dusty books were piled high around Sherlock with those pouty lips all pursed out as he stared down at notes and paper wads. Seeing Sherlock surrounded like that took me back to another time-- of immortality and roses-- a time when life was complex and when the past, present and future all ran together like the books on that very table in front of Sherlock. There were days when I missed my powers and psychic sex, but the upside was I've learned to love normal. To live normal. Normal, Hallelujah!

  
"What brings you here into the bowels of hell?" Sherlock asked, reading glasses inching down his nose.

"I bring gifts."

  
"Is that so?" Sherlock said, he eyes bright. "Hope it's coffee."

  
"Sorry." I stepped around to other side of the table. "No caffeine. How much longer will you be?"

  
Sherlock sighed and looked up. "Hours."

  
"You know, if you don't get out of here, you're going to become as musty and dog-eared as some of these old books," I said, sliding the laptop over with my arm. I parked my ass smack-dab on the table in front of Sherlock. "Now that I have your attention--"

  
"Yes?"

  
"--I'd like to make a brief announcement."

  
"I'd like to listen, but I have to get this finished...I think I have found the missing piece of the puzzle. Here, it’s..." Sherlock reached around me to get his lap top, but I snatched his hand.

  
"No, no, no!" I said, getting in his face. "Look into my eyes..."

  
"What? You the Amazing Kreskin?" He reached for a book.

  
"No, I'm the fucking Santa Claus," I said. "Don't open that book."

  
I tapped my tennis shoe into Sherlock's knee as he leaned back in the old oak spring-back chair. "Ok, I'll leave the book alone for a second, but I do need to get back to work. What's up?"

  
I whipped out the mistletoe and held it above his head.

"Kiss me, you fool."

  
Bodies leaned. Lips met. Mouths opened. Tongues collided. The earth moved.

  
"Say," Sherlock wondered, noticing the mess on my fingers, "what's wrong with your hands? Is it contagious?"

  
"Screw you."

  
"Not in the sanctity of these hallowed halls."

  
"I'll defile them if I wish."

  
"You filthy beast," Sherlock said, playing along. "See if I let you."

  
"You think you can resist?"

  
"Well--" Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, "that depends-- what else do you have behind your back?"

  
“And I thought you were the genius.” I rocked back and forth, digging inside the stocking that I still held behind my back. "Ah, guess-- it's red and white and ate all over."

  
"Um, a newspaper?"

  
"No, not a newspaper! It's a candy cane, silly." Then I pulled out the peppermint cane with flourish and pointed the end of it at Sherlock for emphasis. "Can-dee cane."

  
"I have to get back to work."

  
"Fine." But I ignored him and unwrapped the cane, making sure I made as much noise as a person possibly could unwrapping cellophane. I spied Sherlock watching. He yawned. Well, that won't due, I thought. I stuck the hooked end of the cane into my mouth and sucked. I felt complete satisfaction as Sherlock squirmed his chair. I worked it more--Yeah, baby. Cheeks hollowed out, and eyes lowered. One look down at Sherlock's crotch, and I knew I was making progress. After a few hot moans and tongue flicks up and down and around the crook of the cane Sherlock was wriggling in his seat.

  
"I'm sorry, John, I can't do this. I've got work to do."

  
This was going to be harder than I thought. I doubled my erotic technique: a moan deep from the depths of my throat, half-mast eyes that Sherlock can't resist then a lavish suck and blow on that cane like a XXX pornstar. For my finale, I plunged the candy cane down the back of my throat with more zeal than Linda Lovelace.

  
Sherlock lunged at me. One arm swept books on to the floor while the other grabbed the front of my Iggy Pop t-shirt. I love a man of action. He slammed-bammed me back flat to the table.

  
"Oh, my! I think you broke my peppermint stick!" I said, in mock-horror. "Ravage me, you kinky bastard!" I gave a wicked smile as I slid half of the candy cane into Sherlock's waiting lips. "Good, huh? I hear that doing it in unusual places helps spice up the sex life."

  
"Yeah, I think I read that in the Kinsey Report somewhere."

  
"I bookmarked the page for you." I ground my cock into Sherlock's, then reached between us and began to divest myself of my button-fly jeans. Sherlock wasn't far behind, slinging his levis down his hips, ending in a puddle at his feet.

  
I still had a hold of my magic stocking of tricks and waved it in front of Sherlock's eyes with gusto. My sticky fingers disappeared inside the sock and came out.  
"Sex Tarts flavored lube. Comes with a convenient flip-top and in a variety of delicious flavors. I've selected Cherry Pop for this special occasion."

  
Sherlock whipped the lube out of my hand and popped the top.

  
"Oh," I said, grinning. "I see we're in a hurry. Don't let me slow you-u-u-- whoah! Help! Ack! Forced entry! Forced entry!"

  
That lube sure did tingle.

"Gimme the rest of that damn cane so I can--"

  
"Stick that up my ass too?" I panted as Sherlock slammed into me harder.

  
"No, so I can stick it in your mouth."

  
Sherlock pounded me into the table good. My back hurt a tiny bit, but he had the perfect angle otherwise. Sherlock just managed to catch his laptop before it skidded off the table during a particularly hard thrust. Gibberish spewed out of my mouth. Guess he was worried the janitor might hear because next thing I know he clamped down on my mouth with his full lips. I got plenty of special tongue action after that. Sherlock has this thing where his tongue mimics the movement of his cock. As soon as he started doing those circles with his hips and tongue, I was gone. I came all over the dungeon's sacred table. And his stomach. And Sherlock's shirt from Old Navy.

  
After I felt a tiny bit bad for messing up his table. But just a tiny bit. Seeing his cheeks all rosy made it all worthwhile. He pulled me off the sacred grounds by giving me his hand. We were stuck together for a moment. I giggled. He kissed me again and wiped off our mess with his shirt. Guess I'm doing laundry tonight.  
"Oh," I remembered. "I have one more gift for you in my stocking." I bent down to pick it off the floor where it landed during our throes of passion. Sherlock slapped my lily white ass as I bent over, and I yelped as I picked it up. "No fair!"

  
"Okay, Santa. What else do you have?"

  
I held it up in front of his face.

  
"A Cheeto with a bow?"

  
"Come and get it." I put it between my lips and ran the other way.

  
He followed.

  
He caught me in senior professor Smallwood's office, and I desecrated her desk with my big wood.

  
Sherlock liked that gift the best of all.


End file.
